30 Days
- Reads 35
- Votes 4
- Parts 2
Writing is pretty much my second escape from this little world of mine. It allows my imagination to run wild. Our minds are the most creative workshops. You should write when you're happy, sad or even when you have a million thoughts buzzing around in your head. Those thoughts become motivation to start a story of your own or even poetry. Your book might even be a bestseller one day. You will never know until you try. Before you get your hopes up, this is no romance novel. This is a book about ME. Oops! I didn't intend for that to sound so conceited. What I meant was for 30 days I'd write something about myself. All the tiny little things that make me who I am. I'm not a great writer, but I do hope to become one someday. So I really do hope you enjoy reading this and that it gives you some inspiration.
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selfreflection
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Stolen Pages
~Her words were my poison. I used them to consume myself. Disturbingly honest. Painfully strained. Carefully penned down. Dangerously addictive.~ A journal that landed in the right hands and told a whole story with words, no lips could speak. Two people bound by the pages of a book that tore their souls apart. He found it lying around and wondered what could go wrong. He didn't recognise the handwriting but he knew he instantly fell in love with it. Then it began. The assault of words on his life. He couldn't believe a word she wrote but somehow he did. He knew more about her than anyone else but he knew so little about who she was... It was maddening. How someone could have such an impact on you without having a single conversation with you. Her precious words tortured his existence, they drowned him in misery, created a black hole of words around him, gave him everything he needed to live. Made him fall in love. Gave him a world of his own. Made him believe in rainbows, unicorns, coffee, the basis of happiness, the meaning of every sunrise, the mystery of every deep ocean, she made him human. He knew he had to find her. He had to find out who she was. He had given him all the clues he needed but none of them were enough to prepare him for who she was. But sometimes... The journey is more important than the destination. Sometimes, the journey is the destination. A book full of stolen pages and a boy full of curiosity. This was how he let her shape his story. __________________ Description inside. Italics = Journal entry. 500 word chapters. Okay, so I don't know if you want to read it yet but it would mean the world to me if you could give it a shot.Complete
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Running from the gang
In life, we do things we regret, or that we wish we could wipe from our memory forever. At the age of 15, I didn't think I'd regret anything until I was an adult. I considered myself care free. I lived life one day at a time. Well, as much as a 15 year old can. But in life, there are also things that we can't change, that we can't forget. Circumstances change, events occur, and life as we know it is altered forever. For me, it was one night, that set in motion a series of events that I wouldn't be able to forget, even if I tried to. *************************** My life was spectacular, or cool, but I was content, and that's all that mattered. I wasn't overly popular, I wasn't the prettiest girl, and I didn't live in a mansion. I did have a great boyfriend, and amazing friends, and hell, I wasn't doing too bad in school either. But that all changed one night, as I was walking home at night. I witnessed a man murder someone he claimed was a snitch, something to do with a gang deal gone wrong. When I found my parents dead the next day in a serial killers wet dream, my naive self decided the best thing I could do, was run, giving up everything I loved. After 2 years, 3 dead members of the gang and a new school, I was found. When secrets are unraveled and with the FBI somehow involved, nothing is as it ever seemed.Complete
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I may just be a girl. No one special. Nothing compared to others. In the eyes of the universe, I am just a little speck of dust. My light may not shine very bright, and it may not be of any use, but I am me. Writing is my only escape out of this world. I cry rivers of ink and climb mountains of words. I may not write as well as others, but my writing is just a different style. They're my feelings. I really do hope you can connect to some of the work in here. Please, do not copy any of this work without informing me first. Thank you! "My Escape" I have a supply, In the closet near my bed, Of past memories, Hanging by a thread. A thread, Connected to my mind, That thread, Just follows me around. I have a hole, In the middle of my heart, That hole fills up, When someone's torn apart. I have a tear, Accompanying my lonely eye, Knowing, whenever I'm alone, I can sit in a corner and cry. Even though, These things are there, I still have ink, a notebook, and a pen, To care. I write and write, To my heart's desire, New feelings erupt, By the hour. Writing is, My one escape, In this cruel and careless world, I have the power, to awake. "A Story Without Words" A story told, In a little tune, A golden smile, And a shining tear, Rolling down my cheek. A little breeze, The nice sun, A marvelous day, Turned into a wet one. The memories dripped, Down on my cotton white shirt, Leaving stains, On my malicious heart. Your smile, Worth a thousand words, Can't cheer up This depressive mind. A storm bewildered, Your indecisive mind, Drowning me, In my reckless thoughts. A rainy day, A gleaming lie, A story not told, With words Nor sounds. This story is, But a mere thought, In this universe We share, Every night. This story is, A withering storm, Drifting off, In this careless soul. This story is, Not told with sounds, But a never ending blow, Of swirling emotions, Bottled up inside.Complete
~Her words were my poison. I used them to consume myself. Disturbingly honest. Painfully strained. Carefully penned down. Dangerously addictive.~ A journal that landed in the right hands and told a whole story with words, no lips could speak. Two people bound by the pages of a book that tore their souls apart. He found it lying around and wondered what could go wrong. He didn't recognise the handwriting but he knew he instantly fell in love with it. Then it began. The assault of words on his life. He couldn't believe a word she wrote but somehow he did. He knew more about her than anyone else but he knew so little about who she was... It was maddening. How someone could have such an impact on you without having a single conversation with you. Her precious words tortured his existence, they drowned him in misery, created a black hole of words around him, gave him everything he needed to live. Made him fall in love. Gave him a world of his own. Made him believe in rainbows, unicorns, coffee, the basis of happiness, the meaning of every sunrise, the mystery of every deep ocean, she made him human. He knew he had to find her. He had to find out who she was. He had given him all the clues he needed but none of them were enough to prepare him for who she was. But sometimes... The journey is more important than the destination. Sometimes, the journey is the destination. A book full of stolen pages and a boy full of curiosity. This was how he let her shape his story. __________________ Description inside. Italics = Journal entry. 500 word chapters. Okay, so I don't know if you want to read it yet but it would mean the world to me if you could give it a shot.
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